Once Bitten
by Munchieees
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is about to embark on a new case but there is a far greater game at hand: after all a missing cabinet minister and scores of mutilated corpses are the least of Holmes' worries when Irene Adler is around! Sequel to Dangerous Liaisons.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **

**Warning: May contain spoilers for A Game of Shadows. Thought I should put this here just in case! The Author's Note below in particular contains spoilers. If you don't want them, read no further!**

**Hey guys! I've been thinking about a sequel for Dangerous Liaisons for a while, and god knows the new film out this month provided plenty of fuel for inspiration; the only issue being that thanks to the massive and unwelcome curveball thrown by Guy Ritchie and co when they killed off Irene (WAAAAAAAHHH!), a massive dent has been put through the version of canon and the timelines DL was based around. It's a major FML in terms of continuity, but I'm just making this clear now: as faithful as I want to be to the films, Irene is very much alive at the time this story takes place :) **

**Just a few things: this story will be Holmes/Irene and Watson/Mary, and will feature the OCs of the Watson children we first met in DL. This will be an M rating from the outset -for violence and sexual situations- and will generally be darker and dirtier than its predecessor. Lastly, if you haven't read DL, you might want to skim over the Holmes/Irene areas because what's to follow will make a lot more sense if you do! **

**I hope you enjoy this starting chapter (it's on the small side, but intended as a taster only). I really appreciate any feedback, so please do review if you get the time! **

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><p>Darkness had fallen over London as its citizens slept, but in a secluded corner of Cavendish Place, Doctor and Mrs Watson were very much awake. Christmas was fast approaching, and the young couple were putting the finishing touches to the handsome fir tree which stood in their drawing room. Adorned with nuts, berries and small wooden figurines, Mary had insisted the festive decor was 'all the rage' in Europe. Her husband, Doctor John Watson, was unconvinced. Trees, he was adamant, should remain outdoors where the good Lord had put them. Besides, it had taken two hours to get the blessed thing in here and the needles were already falling off.<p>

That said, the presence of a _tree_ inside their house had provided hours of amusement for the Watsons' three young daughters; even Esme who at nine months old was far too young to appreciate the meaning of Christmas. In fact, Watson had his suspicions that his two eldest girls -twins Tilly and Rose- were far more taken by the brightly-wrapped presents and tasty seasonal treats to spare a thought for the birth of the Lord and Saviour, but then they were only children, and Watson was too doting a father to throw a damper on their spirits.

"Esme's first Christmas..." Mary's blonde hair was shimmering in the light of the dying hearth fire as she turned an affectionate smile upon her husband of three years, who sat beside the tree with a bowl of walnuts in his lap. She frowned suddenly. "Those are for the _tree_, John!"

Watson, who had been in the act of slipping a walnut into his mouth when he'd thought his wife was looking the other way, dropped the offending nut back into the bowl with a mischievous grin.

"The tree doesn't need them all, _Mrs Watson_."

Mary could never stay angry with her husband for long. The truth was they were too besotted with each other for their rows and niggles to last longer than a few hours at most. She had perched herself on the very end of the chaise lounge upon which the three Watson daughters lay, all three of them asleep and snoring gently.

"They're so much quieter when they're sleeping," Watson murmured, straightening up with a wince. His old war injury, sustained in the Afghan conflict some time ago, had taken a hefty setback just over a year previously, when engaging in a swordfight with a deranged Indian princess had left him quite crippled. He had, however, fared better than the princess: six weeks on a crutch was, Watson considered, infinitely preferable to a bullet through the forehead!

Following her husband's gaze to their three sleeping daughters, Mary smiled softly. "Long may it last." She inclined her head to kiss each of the girls in turn. "Shall we go to bed, Doctor?"

Since Jemima the nursery maid had long-since departed, a double act of balancing three sleeping daughters between them on the long trip to the upstairs landing was required. But at last the task was done and 'Mrs Watson' was able to take her husband up the second flight of stairs to their own bed.

Once inside the room, Watson flopped down onto the mattress with a long and aberrant sigh.

"What a day it's been..."

"How do you mean?" Mary's voice came from behind him on the bed. Watson sighed again -contentedly this time- and sank back into her embrace as she began to rub his shoulders. "You're so tense, darling..."

"Surgery this morning," Watson began, "all the Christmas shenanigans..." He paused, giving over to the pleasant sensations of massage for just a second to gather his thoughts. "...and Holmes of course."

"Ah yes." Watson didn't need to look at her to tell that Mary was no longer smiling. "Holmes..."

Sensing he had put his wife on the back foot, Watson twisted onto his knees so he was facing her across the bed. He gathered Mary into his arms and kissed her deeply, loving as he always did the gentle thrum of her honeyed lips beneath his own.

"Let's forget all about Holmes," Watson murmured as he drew back. He dragged a thumb over her bottom lip before turning his attentions to the exposed skin of her neck, right where he knew she loved to be kissed the most. "It's only you and me now."

Mary let out a small noise - half sigh, half breathless, pleasured moan. "You only kiss me there when you want something..."

Watson had laced his fingers through the ties of her corset and was slowly unravelling them as they kissed. Against her neck, Mary could feel him smiling. "But I _do_ want something, Mary..."

A triple knock on the front door below startled Watson so that he almost toppled right off the bed. Instead he jumped, jolting Mary's corset strings tightly enough that she cried out in pain.

"Damn." Watson rubbed the small of her back. "I'm sorry." For a few seconds he listened carefully. Had he imagined the knock? It hadn't been their door...a late night visitor for their neighbours perhaps? But then the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time, and Watson swung his legs from the bed.

"John?" Mary was attempting -frantically and without much success- to re-lace her own corset. "John, who on Earth can be calling at this hour?" She threw her gaze upon the clock on the mantle, shaking her head.

Watson did not answer. He had one person and one person only in mind, and a grim glance shared with Mary told him they were both thinking the same thing. With Mary close behind him, Watson stalked from the bedroom and down the stairs with murder in his every step.

It was raining outside - Watson could hear it rapping on the windows as he reached the front door and wrenched it open. He groaned - louder and with more vehemence than he ever had in his life before.

"What do you _want_?"

"A moment of your time," said Sherlock Holmes "is all I will ask for."

"You are asking for a _lot_ more than that," Watson growled. "A fist in the face, for example. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"The time for work is universal," Holmes said quite haughtily. "Especially when there is so much at stake. Is this new?" The drenched detective (for he was quite sodden by the rain and Watson really would not have been surprised if he had walked all the way from Baker Street) paused his speech to tug at the lapels of Watson's half-unbuttoned white shirt, but the doctor slapped his hand away.

"John." Mary had come to stand beside her husband and was eyeing Holmes with her usual expression of extreme dislike and suspicion. "John, he's _dripping_ on our rug..."

For what seemed like the first time, Watson took a good long look at his best friend and realised what a terrible state he was in: aside from the water cascading from his hair and clothes, Holmes was unshaven and dishevelled beyond even his usual questionable standards. Most notably of all though, Holmes was almost totally naked from the waist up - his shirt was absent and his chest covered by a waistcoat several sizes too small for him. Watson placed a hand on Mary's arm to mollify her. He was going to speak, but Holmes got there first. He had broken into his most superficially charming smile.

"Mary, my dear - is a more forthcoming welcome too much to ask? Anyone would think you weren't pleased to see me..."

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><p>"Alright Holmes," Watson said finally, when the detective had been wrestled into a warm bath to calm his chills and dressed just as unwillingly in a spare set of Watson's clothes. "What was it this time?"<p>

"I find myself before a crossroad," Holmes began in his usual, arrogant patter. "One which could radically alter the course of my investigation should I choose the wrong path. However..." With these words he fixed Watson with an unblinking gaze. "When one has lanterns with which to best light the way, the choice is a far easier one to make. I have always said how valuable a second opinion - particularly yours, old boy- is to me..."

Watson could smell the opium on Holmes with every word he spoke. This was not the first time it had occurred in his attuned medical mind that the continued use of such drugs would eventually render his friend completely incoherent, however it was the first time in a while he feared such a thing had actually happened.

"Holmes," Watson said carefully. "What in the name of God are you talking about?"

"Not for the first time and by no means the last," Holmes said with his infectious half-smile, "I find myself at a loss without you. Will you come?"

Watson waited a moment or so before he returned Holmes' smile.

"If only for the satisfaction of hearing you say you can't manage without me..." He swallowed the last of his brandy and got, grudgingly, to his feet. "Where do we start?"

"Where do we _continue_, my dear Watson," Holmes expostulated. "The game, I think you'll find, is already in session!"

**To be continued...sooner rather than later I think - Christmas holidays = plenty of time to write, and I've already started the second chapter! :)**


	2. The Doctor and The Detective

**Author's Note: Hi guys. I've been really thrilled with the response I've got so far, so a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed and enjoyed! :) I hope chapter 2 makes up length-wise for the shortness of the first, and that the writing is up to scratch...please do let me know if not because I'm always looking to improve, as you know. Aside from that, enjoy - we end with a letter once again, just like in Dangerous Liaisons...**

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><p><em>3 weeks earlier... <em>

Some seven months after they had returned from India and the search for the famed Queen's Sapphire had been abated (its location far closer to home than first suspected and in the hands of someone who had been and remained very important to Sherlock Holmes), Watson had had his nose broken by his best friend. In time the wound had healed -though it still twinged occasionally, especially in the cold weather- and for a while it seemed that the doctor would make a full recovery with very little in the way of an ugly bump on the bridge of his nose to show for the injury. And this would almost certainly have been the case, had not a series of incidents so analogous it was almost impossible to dismiss them as mere coincidence hampered his progress considerably:

The first was during a case: he and Holmes were chasing through the backstreets of Whitechapel when they were ambushed by one of the three assailants they'd been trying so hard to apprehend. A hefty blow had caught Watson straight around the head, knocking him to the ground. The assailant had then stomped on his nose, breaking it for the second time in as many months, and knocking him unconscious. By the time he awoke, the first thing he saw was Holmes' smug grin; the second, the assailants strewn around him in the dirt, all groaning softly and straining against their handcuffs.

The second had occurred not three weeks later, when the break was just beginning to heal once more. Watson had been out drinking with a friend from his old surgery and they'd chosen a bar with a low-hanging ceiling: not too low, but apparently low enough for Watson to bump straight into and undo all the good work of the physician who had stitched him up the last time, he being in no position to do it himself.

The third had been during his first rugby game of the new season in September. The final time it happened had been a mere three weeks before at the very beginning of November. Little Esme had learned what fun it was to throw her bowl and cutlery from the highchair - a trick both of her parents suspected she had been taught by her Godfather- and of course when she hurled her silver plated Christening mug, the target body had been her Father's face.

That had been just under a month ago and the pain was still fairly considerable. So Watson was not especially impressed to be awoken, one cold winter's morning, by his dog -Gladstone- pawing repeatedly at his nose with a hind leg.  
>"Mary...?" Watson swatted absent-mindedly in the air before him, on the very brink between sleep and wakefulness. He sniffed, drew in a deep breath, and recoiled. He would know Mary's scent anywhere and that was not it! Doctor Watson's wife smelt of rosewater, milk powder and peppermint; not of Thames water, raw meat and mud.<br>Lifting his head swiftly, it took Watson a few seconds to gather his thoughts, look around him and remember where he was: his study. He looked down at the report he'd spent most of the evening working on, now illegible beneath inkblots, and groaned. He'd fallen asleep at his desk again. Why did he keep allowing this to happen?

"Gladstone, get down!" The dog was standing _on_ the desk; goodness knows how he had gotten up there. "_Down!"_ Gladstone gave an objectionable bark but did not move, so Watson swiped at him and he scrabbled hurriedly to the floor, scattering the papers left, right and centre across the study floor.

Now with a crick in his neck to balance out the pain in his nose, Watson struggled out of his chair and up the stairs to the drawing room where his family was waiting for him. Mary was seated between Tilly and Rose who were tucking into slices of buttered toast. Two identical faces glanced up in perfect unison as the doctor entered.  
>"Daddy!"<br>"Good morning, my darlings." Watson made his journey around the room, kissing each of his girls in turn. He saved his best and last kiss for Mary, who beamed up at him as they broke apart.  
>"Good morning, John."<br>"And how are you today, Mrs Watson?"

"Very well, thank you." Mary smiled as she spooned steaming porridge into her own mouth. "How did you sleep?" There was a tremor in her lip, as though she were trying hard not to giggle.

Watson smiled and took his seat on Tilly's right. "Do you have the morning paper?"

Mary looked around her. "Not yet," she said. "Perhaps you could pick one up on your way to Baker Street this morning..."

"What makes you think I'm going to see Holmes?" Watson asked, surprised.

"I had an inkling." Mary smiled. "How long has it been now?"

Watson knew instantly she was referring to the amount of time it had been since he and Holmes had collaborated on a case; the answer being somewhere between four and five months. There had been suppers, operas and impromptu visits by the score, but not a single case to whet their shared appetite for investigation.

It had not been the first time Watson had been close to wishing the criminal classes would stir up a little mischief, for no other reason than to give his friend something to do with himself. Watson knew from experience that a Holmes left alone to his own devices had a tendency to cause more trouble than he solved...

And so Watson did indeed set off for Baker Street after breakfast. He had an hour or two to spare before his first appointment of the day, and besides, he had an unconscious feeling that Holmes would be in need of some company, if only to keep him from shooting at the walls.

It mattered little that there hadn't been a gap this long between stimulating cases for all the time he and Holmes had been associated - the fundamental principle remained the same: Sherlock Holmes was bored, and when Sherlock Holmes was bored, things got broken.

When Watson arrived on the threshold of 221b, it was to discover that -in his usual work-starved fashion- Holmes had begun tearing his humble abode apart piece by piece: there was a chunk taken out of the stone of the top step before the front door, almost as if something had been thrown from the upper-storey window...

Watson still had his old key (which he kept with him at all times in case a medical emergency arose and Holmes himself was too intoxicated to let the doctor inside), but he rang the doorbell anyway. Within seconds it swung open, laying before him the hallway and all of the familiar furnishings which had once been his as well as Holmes'.

Mrs Hudson, the landlady, had opened the door for him and she stood back to grant him entry.

"Mrs Hudson." Watson smiled warmly, but his former landlady did not reciprocate. The doctor would have sworn her hair had turned further to grey since he'd last seen her; in fact it was his professional opinion that she should have retired years ago, before caring for her troublesome tenant finally sent her around the bend into total insanity.

An uncomfortable silence followed, and before Watson could break it by enquiring tentatively after her health, Mrs Hudson seized him by the collar and hissed frenziedly into his ear.

"I haven't slept in a week and a half..." Mrs Hudson's voice trembled as she spoke. "He's worse than ever, Doctor; you simply can't imagine the chaos." She gestured to the hall dresser, the top of which had been home to a handsome crockery set the last time Watson had visited. Now it was empty, save for a single chipped teacup. "Last night it was clay-pigeon shooting with my wedding china. The night before, I ask Graham to bring the tub in and find that it's in _his_," she pointed upstairs to indicate Holmes, "front room, filled to the brim with Prussic acid!"

"Prussic acid?" Watson raised an eyebrow.  
>"Oh that's not all," Mrs Hudson lamented, shaking her head. "<em>Oh<em> no... Opiates, Doctor."  
>"Really?"<br>She nodded.  
>"Exactly what I say. Opiates among all manner of wicked, poisonous chemicals..." She pointed up the stairs with a trembling finger. "He's brewing them up there, doctor, the Lord alone knows how. And then I come home from the market to find he's keeping his 'products' in my pantry - this morning I found cocaine..." Mrs Hudson lowered her voice, as if the mere mention of such evils out loud would incite a holy firestorm upon Baker Street and pull the entire West End of London down into the deepest pits of a fiery Hell. "...in my sugar bowl. I had company this morning, Doctor - it was a lucky escape!"<p>

Watson had to grit his teeth with the effort of keeping from laughing, so amusing was the image of Mrs Hudson explaining to her guests that they had to hand back the tea because what they had just stirred into it was anything but sugar! He tried desperately to stop his lip from trembling, but it was too late - Mrs Hudson had seen.

"I'm glad you seem to find this so amusing!"

"No, no, Mrs Hudson..." Watson straightened his face. "Really, I'm sorry." He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.

"I am telling you now, Doctor..." Mrs Hudson had began to pace up and down the corridor. "...I am at the end of my tether. I don't know how much more of him I can take. It's got worse, you know - _far_ worse since you left, and the last month especially has been a nightmare..." She was working herself up into a state and so Watson took her arm, steering her towards the hall chair which she collapsed into, legs shaking.

"Mrs Hudson, I want you to come and see me later in the week." Watson pulled an appointment card from his portmanteau, scribbled a time and date, and handed it back to her. "I'm proscribing a strong dose of sedatives and two weeks rest and recuperation."

Mrs Hudson shook her head distractedly.

"And come back to find the house mown down to its foundations?"

"I'll take care of it."

"And who's to say he'll stop with just the house?" Evidently Mrs Hudson hadn't heard a word Watson had said. "Leave Sherlock Holmes alone in my house for two weeks? They may as well wipe Baker Street off the map altogether!" She let out a bark of laughter that would have been carefree if not for the hysterical expression on her face. "England itself would fall to that man, Doctor."

"You don't need to worry about any of that," Watson wheedled. "Please, Mrs Hudson, let me help you."

Mrs Hudson still seemed unconvinced, so Watson tried a different tactic. "At least let me take him off your hands for a fortnight. I guarantee by the time you return, it will be to a far happier home."

"I wish you luck with him, Doctor." Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Today more than usual - he's especially erratic."

Watson took this to be his cue and he began to head towards the stairs. He paused on the bottom step and looked back. "Come upstairs in ten minutes, and I promise I will have Holmes in a more than fit state to apologise for his behaviour."

The smell of gunpowder and liquor hung heavy in the air as Watson wended his way up the corridor towards his friend's study. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for gunshots, but heard nothing, so he knocked twice and waited five seconds before pushing the door open.

It was so dark inside Holmes' rooms that if Watson had not lived at 221b Baker Street himself for many years, he would never have been able to find his way past the threshold without bumping the furniture. That was the one outstanding quality Holmes possessed, separate from his normally volatile personality - the furniture inside his rooms rarely moved.

"Holmes?" Watson screwed up his nose, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. "Holmes, where are you?"  
>"Ah, Watson," came a languid voice from within the gloom. "Sleeping at your desk again, the second time this week?" The face of Sherlock Holmes appeared - only his face for he appeared to be floating in midair. "Did Mary throw you out of bed?"<br>Watson avoided the question with skill born of long practice, reaching out and yanking open the curtains to shed a little light. He edged a little closer to his friend who, if he hadn't known better, Watson would have sworn had managed to lay waste to his body and master the art of levitation. He was standing side-on to Watson, but turned his head, eyebrows raised comically.  
>"How are you doing that?" Watson asked, curious despite himself.<br>"That, my dear Watson," Holmes said, eyes shining, "is remarkably simple. You see..." He reached down and began to tweak at what appeared to be a black curtain which was obscuring his body from view. "Watson, if you would be so kind...?"

Watson obediently drew back the sheet, exposing Holmes' body. His friend was standing inside what appeared me be a large, perfectly square wooden box with an open front and one of his knees was bent; 'standing' used loosely as both of Holmes' feet appeared to be levitating several inches above the ground.

"I don't understand..."

"Bend over," Holmes said bluntly. "Put your hands inside and have a feel."

With a roll of his eyes, Watson did so. He put his hands inside the box and grabbed hold of Holmes' foot, satisfying himself that it really was hanging above the ground. He then made to grab the other, but found that he was unable to do so - he reached out, puzzled as his fist repeatedly against a hard, shiny surface. It took Watson longer than it should to work it out - _A looking-glass. _

"I see." Watson straightened up. "One foot really is raised off the ground - the second foot is merely a reflection of the first, giving the impression that you're floating. Very clever."

"Smoke and mirrors," Holmes said with a flourish. "Or in this case, rather, just mirrors."

"A little beneath you, don't you think, Holmes - magic tricks?"

"Many things are beneath me, Watson, but this does not leave me any less exposed to appreciation of their beauty and you never know when they might come in handy. However..." Holmes looked up, colouring slightly. "I have encountered a small...problem...if you will with my experiment." He placed his bent leg back on the floor and began to wiggle the other furiously.

"Let me guess," Watson said with a smile. "You're stuck."

"It was a tight fit," Holmes admitted. "But there could be no margin for error."

"Well you certainly fooled me, old boy." Watson set his walking cane down and shrugged off his jacket. "Though might I suggest the curtain was unnecessary?"

"The effect was better in the dark," Holmes conceded.

"Indeed. Now, let's get you out of there..."

Watson began to tug on the shoddily-nailed wooden planks which encased Holmes, finding that many of them gave way with relative ease; all except one right at the front.  
>Watson tugged hard, with much encouragement from Holmes, and it finally gave way with a loud 'CRACK' and the tinkle of shattered glass. He looked up at Holmes with a raised eyebrow.<br>"That's seven years bad luck, you know."  
>"It wasn't I who broke it!" Holmes stepped out of the debris with as much dignity as he could possibly muster and flopped down into his armchair. "Here's hoping you don't cross the path of a black cat on your way home tonight - it could mean the end of you..."<p>

A knock at the door cut off all chance Watson might have had at a comeback. The detective stretched and yawned before calling out:  
>"Enter..."<br>The white face and tired eyes of Mrs Hudson appeared around the doorframe. Watson glanced briefly at his pocket-watch - had it been ten minutes already?  
>"Ah, Nanny..." Holmes smiled glibly, which did little or nothing to disguise his contempt, but perhaps that had been his intention. "Mrs Hudson...I thought perhaps you had forgotten me."<br>Mrs Hudson sniffed. "If I live a thousand years, Mr Holmes," she said icily, "I fear that the good Lord will never grant me the sweet mercy of being able to forget _you_!"  
>Holmes smiled again, but it seemed somewhat fixed, and far, far more dangerous. He broke his gaze with her and looked instead towards Watson. "I shall not be apologizing for anything."<br>Watson sighed. "How did you know?"  
>"You will notice that Mrs Hudson is not carrying a tray."<br>"I hadn't noticed."  
>"Of course not, you never do. As I say, she is not carrying a tray, begging the question: 'Why has she come if her intention was not to deliver or collect to or from my rooms?'" Holmes leaned back in his armchair, hands clasped behind his head. "I heard your hansom arrive at Baker Street some six minutes before you knocked on my study door," he continued. "An unusual time lapse, don't you think, considering the hallway and stairs should take you some 45 seconds at most..? You were waylaid then, but by whom? Not outside the house because you rang the doorbell. Inside, then, and with the only other occupant of this address - the landlady, Mrs Hudson."<br>"We could have been discussing the weather for all you knew," said Mrs Hudson snippily.  
>Holmes smiled. "And waste time informing the Doctor of all my wrongdoings? No, no, a negative conversation, is statistically more likely - the customary enquires after wife and family would unlikely extend to 5 minutes of conversation." He nodded to indicate Watson, and the doctor felt a sudden stab of apprehension for what was to follow. "You, Watson, are a man of honour; and you, my dear sweet Nanny, are a woman wronged." He held his hands wide. "Any respectable man would be most compelled to apologise for behaviour such as mine these past few weeks, especially under the good doctor's recommendation." He smiled. "I highly doubt it has escaped your notice, though, that I am not a respectable man!"<br>"Very good," Watson said. "I knew we'd get there in the end. You will be apologizing to Mrs Hudson, though, Holmes...most sincerely."  
>"I shall not."<br>"Oh I beg to differ." Watson placed his hands on the arms of Holmes' armchair, arms braced, and leaned in close to show he was very serious indeed. "The money to replace Mrs Hudson's wedding china," Watson said. "Now, Holmes."  
>Holmes flicked ash from his pipe and shook his head slowly. "Regrettably I find myself lacking in funds at present," he said. "Even if I had any wish at all to carry out the gesture..."<br>"Now," Watson repeated.  
>"Was I unclear before?"<br>"Holmes, you had me cash a cheque to your account just last week," Watson said, exasperated. "And what about your deposit box on the Strand?"

"Inaccessible until further notice."

"_Holmes!_"

"Doctor?" Watson looked towards Mrs Hudson, for it was she who had spoken. "As much as I appreciate you trying, there will really be no need."

"Really, Mrs Hudson, I must insist that..."

"The insurance will cover the cost, I am sure," said Mrs Hudson heavily. "As much as I would enjoy seeing him pay every last penny..."

"Very well." Watson gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Remember your appointment - later this week."

"Yes, doctor." She nodded and, pausing only to shoot another virulent glare in Holmes' direction, backed out of the door.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Watson wondered where he should begin.

"Holmes..."  
>"You know how I hate apologies."<br>"Unsurprising, considering you owe so very many," Watson quipped. "In that case, maybe stop doing things to apologize for. Holmes, you are driving the poor woman to distraction!"

Holmes said nothing; merely lit up his pipe and began to smoke. Watson sighed. He sensed the subject would be unapproachable for now - Holmes would only ignore him completely if he continued speaking, and Watson wasn't one for wasting his breath.

"How are you, Holmes?"

"Uninspired."

"No cases?"

"Plenty," Holmes answered. "None of any interest whatsoever."

"Where?" Watson looked where Holmes pointed - towards a stack of letters on the mantelpiece. He shook his head as he gathered them up: there were more letters in this pile for Holmes than he and Mary received in six months.

"Theft..." Watson stated, skimming through the scribbled content and reading the odd word aloud. "Apparent murder...kidnap...another theft...diamond heist..." He looked up at Holmes, tutting with disbelief. "Really? There is nothing in this pile that interests you at all?"

"Not in the slightest."  
>"You are taking one of these cases," Watson said firmly. "You get worse as each moon rises."<br>"I fail to see how my behaviour deviates from its usual standard when I am between cases," Holmes said sulkily.  
>"You would," Watson said, as dryly as he thought possible. "Come on Holmes, you surely can't miss the signs - prussic acid in the bathtub? Now even you have to admit that falls in a new category of insanity!"<p>

"There is in fact a case which has my attention already," Holmes told him, ignoring all accusations of unsound mind Watson could throw, and he could easily have thrown plenty.

"Oh?" Watson was suspicious and unmoved. "Tell me."

"On _that _table," Holmes pointed, "you will find a copy of yesterday's paper."

Watson took the news rag up. "What am I looking for?" Holmes said nothing, and Watson's eye was caught by the headline: 'POLICE BAFFLED AS SEARCH FOR MINISTER CONTINUES'.

"This one?" Watson asked. "The Lowerly case?"

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Sir Francis Lowerly, of the Lord Chancellor's Office, was declared missing two months ago last Saturday, and so far all attempts to trace his whereabouts have proved fruitless. Any surmising as to why that may be, Watson?"

"Because he or whoever else might have been involved covered their tracks well and these investigations take time?" Watson guessed.

"No," Holmes said. "Rather because the police are incompetent; Lestrade is a fool; and because they have yet to appoint their best man to the case."

"You?" Watson guessed.

"Me." Holmes was re-stuffing his pipe. He seemed frustrated. "But as the situation stands, they have made it clear thus far that they can manage well enough without me."

"You've been down there to ask." Watson stated the claim more than enquired, and was somewhat surprised to see Holmes shaking his head.

"On the contrary," Holmes said sternly. "I will not be demeaned by lowering myself to such a level as to _ask_ if I may do my job."

Watson looked around the filthy room with raised eyebrows, taking in the piles of mess and pungent odour, and thinking that as levels were, there wasn't any lower to which Holmes was capable of sinking. But he did not say so. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and surmised what he had learned.  
>"Lestrade won't let you on the case," Watson said, "so you're reacting by throwing a tantrum and boycotting work altogether?"<br>"There will come a time not so long from now where Lestrade finds that he is quite unable to manage this case without me," Holmes said haughtily. "When that time comes, I should not like to be engaged with another conundrum: investigating two simultaneous cases is not a challenge I have undertaken in some time, and I fear may be somewhat outside of my capabilities at present. However..." He was toying with his pipe now, spinning it between all five of his fingers like some sort of baton. "...if a singularly unique and intriguing case were to call my attentions between now and then, I could be persuaded to reconsider."  
>"Then allow me to 'persuade' you," Watson said, taking a chair and beginning to sort through the piles of letters from Holmes' hopeful clientele. "Here, how about this: missing groom-to-be, vanished from before the altar in front of 200 friends and relatives, leaving both suit and cravat behind him."<br>"No."  
>"Cravat AND suit, Holmes," Watson pressed. "Vanished into thin air... Is that not even the least bit exciting to you?"<br>"Cold feet," Holmes said swiftly. "Vanishing on the brink of matrimony? That was probably the most sensible decision he ever made and who indeed am I to question it?"  
>"A Mr Tullock of the Great Portland Street," Watson pressed on, ignoring Holmes, "requests help in recovering..."<br>"No."  
>"I haven't told you what it is yet!"<p>

"The client is suffering with senile dementia; his pocket-watch is at the menders, where he left it last week."

"I..." Watson broke off, setting the letter down without another word. The next letter he turned to was different - the envelope remained unopened. Watson picked it up and waved it under Holmes' nose. "This morning's post? You must have missed one."

Holmes held out a hand, palm flat. "Give it to me."

Watson smiled grimly. "Choose one of the cases."

"Give me the letter."

"Choose."

"The letter."

"A case."

"Now."

"First."

"_Watson_."

"_Holmes._"

"With every day that passes," Holmes said, "you become more and more like your wife."

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><p>Holmes was alone again within half an hour, having dispatched Watson to his surgery and the ready list of patients which awaited him. Negotiations over which of the duo would give in first to the other's demands had not lasted long once Holmes had tackled the Doctor. Holmes had both the letter and the promise of no forthcoming cases by the time Watson had departed, with a severely bruised ego to match his steadily-blackening left eye.<p>

Alone and a bottle of scotch in hand to ease the pain of his own severely squashed kidneys, Holmes settled into his armchair and tore into the letter. The sweet smell of perfume wafted out from between the paper folds and Holmes took in a deep, sustaining breath. _Parisian. Nothing changes... _

He leant forwards in his chair and began to read:

'_To my Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes...' _

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><p><strong>For any of you who are interested, Holmes' little trick is explained in the link below far better than in my description! Replace dots and slashes with relevant punctuation to get around the 'anti-link filter' FanFiction seems to have with external URLs :')<strong>

**www (DOT) freemagictricks4u (DOT) com (SLASH) levitation (DOT) html**


	3. Begging Game

**Author's Note: ...My excuse this time is AS coursework EATING ME ALIVE, but I'm really hoping I can be forgiven! I'm rather nervous about this chapter - heed the M-rating, mis amigos - here there be smut. Thanks soo much for all the reviews, PMs and support so far - a special yell to who has been a source of great encouragement these past few weeks, and to GhibliGirl91 who will hopefully soon be joining the party!**

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><p>Despite his proclivity for a sense of personal hygiene and clothing rarely appreciated in civilised Victorian society -that is to say he dressed and smelt as though he'd just tumbled head first from a week-long stint in an opium den- Sherlock Holmes did nonetheless have an uncanny ability to make himself presentable in a matter of minutes if occasion should call for such drastic measures to be employed. Presenting himself well was, to Holmes' mind at least, a needless pursuit up until the very point where it becamenecessary; the main problem he encountered was that he was rarely able to judge accurately when that point was. Watson had lost count of the amount of time's he'd sent Holmes back to Baker Street to bathe and change before allowing him through the doors of Cavendish Place, and there was an elderly lady from Regent's Park who had had her husband shoot her beloved cocker spaniel on the grounds that the poor animal was becoming incontinent, blissfully unaware that their progress along the Strand that morning had been tracked every step of the way by a certain consulting detective in shirt-tails daubed with manure.<p>

That said there was neither a tailor nor merchant in London who could deny that Holmes was able to scrub up rather well when he could be bothered to try. In such cases, the art of suitably dressing oneself became to Holmes much like any other area of human behaviour in which he dabbled, however unwillingly - if he really had to do something, he made sure he did it properly.

So it was in a freshly-laundered white shirt, cravat and braces that Holmes answered the door to Irene Adler the next morning, his hair hastily washed and slicked back, cheeks and chin clean-shaven.

"You might have given me a little more warning..."

"And miss the look of surprise on your face?" Irene hopped gracefully up the steps at the front of 221b and under Holmes' arm into the hallway. She was, Holmes thought as he watched her, so breathtaking that no matter how hard he tried, no mental picture he could form between her visits was anywhere close to the reality.

"_I_ am never surprised," Holmes said haughtily. He took the hand she offered and kissed it gently. "How was Rome? You've been back for two...no, _three_ weeks now, have you not? It was warmer than one would expect for the season - your suntan is just beginning to fade, but the freckles..." He raised a finger and tapped her gently on the nose. "...are still quite apparent."

The corners of Irene's mouth turned up - it was an unusually sentimental moment for the two of them, inbetween rounds of the usual repertoire: drinking, making love and Holmes taking hits below the belt whilst smartly skating around facing up to the fact that the attachment between them was developing further with each and every dalliance.

Both of Irene's hands had been shrouded inside the folds of a thick fur coat she was using to keep the chill out, but she withdrew them both and drew back the ermine flaps to reveal a bottle she had kept nestled in the crook of one arm.

"Do you want to take my coat?" She enquired with a barefaced smile. "Or should we skip straight to the wine..?"

Obligingly, Holmes stepped up and helped her out of her coat, feeling his stomach swoop involuntarily as his hand brushed her shoulder (which was of course bare) beneath the fur collar. He hung the garment over the banister and accepted the wine as she pushed it firmly into his hands.

"Is Mrs Hudson away for long?" Irene as usual appeared to have no qualms with making herself at home, for she turned away from Holmes and slinked tantalisingly along the corridor towards the downstairs drawing room before the detective had had the chance to formally invite her in.

"Two weeks," Holmes said as he followed her, hands clasped tightly around the bottle of wine as he mentally wrestled with himself to recall the location of the corkscrew. Mrs Hudson had rearranged the locations of all 221b's sharp or offensive items in the wake of the carnage left by his recent work-starved state, and the corkscrew was one of the few remaining articles he had yet to trace.

"I thought so." Irene had settled herself onto one of the two plump divans Mrs Hudson's drawing room had to offer, azure eyes alight with merriment as she ran both hands simultaneously over the fabric surface. "It's pretty unlikely you'd have bothered coming to the door yourself if she was around. Is this satin?"

Holmes did not answer. He had found the corkscrew in the second place he'd tried - in the second drawer of the dresser, hidden beneath a pile of neatly-folded white napkins. He glanced briefly downwards at the bottle he held in one hand, reading its label for the first time as he opened it: it was red, ten years aged and delightfully musky, Holmes noted, as the cork slipped from the bottle's neck with a satisfying 'pop'.

"Shall I be Mother..?" He began to divide the wine between the two glasses he'd set out earlier in preparation. It was, after all, not _only_ for the vanquishing of the criminal classes that Holmes was prepared to utilise his staggering abilities of foresight; it came in handy also when one was expecting a visitor and the said visitor almost always brought wine.

As he settled on the divan beside Irene and handed one glass of wine to her, Holmes realized for the first time that he was still holding the corkscrew. He began to turn it over and over in his hands as he watched Irene take her first sip of wine, an expression of errant amusement playing across her countenance as she silently mocked him for his suspicions.

"To us?" She raised her glass and Holmes tapped his own dutifully against it.

"Indeed." He drank for the first time, relishing the rich flavour. It was a rare occurrence that Sherlock Holmes was able to taste a wine and not be able to predict with some accuracy the exact establishment from which it had been purchased, but when it came to Irene's most recent offering, he confessed himself to be at a loss...almost: Chianti, which was a particular favourite of Doctor Watson's and that Holmes himself had sampled many times, has a distinctive taste; and yet no two bottles will taste quite the same. Holmes had sampled a great many of the ages and varieties London's taverns had to offer, and yet this was a wholly unfamiliar taste; he was sure of it. She had brought it from overseas then, on her travels. She had, after all, been in Italy. But the evidence said otherwise: Holmes had observed a thin layer of dust over the bottle's surface as he'd handled it, and the outlines of Irene's fingers were clearly visible where she'd gripped it around the neck. _If it had travelled too far, the dust would have been wiped clear_. So where had the wine come from, if not directly from its country of origin? Holmes was unsure at present. It would never do to ask, so perhaps he would never know. He was learning (painfully slowly, mind, but learning nonetheless) that there were areas in which Irene Adler would never cease to amaze him.

So Holmes put the wine's mystery from his mind and focussed instead upon the woman who had brought it. She was looking particularly beautiful -'ravishing', some might have said- in a dress of deep purple ruffles which clinched around the waist, and hair piled high upon her head. It had occurred more than once to Holmes that he spent an inordinate amount of time studying the clothes she wore, perhaps because he was trying desperately to suppress the urge to tear them from her body and cover the skin below with his hands, and then his lips, and then his own body, lying flush against hers... But no - that would not do. Sherlock Holmes was a gentleman, and he would behave as such until directed otherwise. How lucky it was, then, for Holmes own sanity, that Irene Adler's ethics were not nearly so rigid...

They began almost every time in a similar, if not entirely the same fashion, and this occasion was no different: Holmes had scarcely set down his glass before Irene had slid neatly along the divan and laid a hand across his chest. She leaned in close and exhaled from the mouth, evoking a shiver as her breath caressed the sensitive skin behind Holmes' ear. She ran the hand up from the buttons on his shirt to slide teasingly over and beneath the collar and knot of the cravat.

"Such a dapper detective this morning," she whispered, her breath carrying just a hint of the wine they'd been drinking. "This is shaping up to be a good day so far..."

She kissed his neck first, smiling triumphantly to herself as she felt his pulse quicken slightly beneath her lips. Working her hands upward into his hairline, she pressed against him as well as the difficult angle would allow, which was more than enough for Holmes to work out how this round would be played.

He kissed her then, with enough passion to take her breath, though not so intensely that she was left entirely without her wits, for he sensed she was not in the mood to be dominated or led astray. Breaking their embrace, he slid both hands beneath her thighs and hoisted her from the surface of the settee onto his knees where she settled, one leg on either side of his hips.

They were kissing intently now - he was carding his hand through her hair, stroking and caressing her scalp with nimble fingers while she fought to press each of his shirt buttons through their loopholes in an effort to reach the chest beneath which was by now beginning to heave with anticipation and need.

When the shirt finally fell away, Irene smiled as she surveyed her prize. She and Holmes had been lovers (if that was indeed what you would call them) for more than a year, and it could never have been said that they made anything other than a picture-perfect couple. She was beautiful; he, rugged and handsome belying of his increasing years, and both had been blessed with the potential for impressive physiques. It was only when one took the opportunity to look closer at the precarious relationship they shared that the cracks began to show clearer, and it was these cracks -coupled with an acute conflict of personalities- which kept them from forming a more 'society-friendly' relationship. It hadn't taken them long to realise, however, that this was an arrangement which suited them perfectly. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were not conventional individuals; they would not, therefore, be a conventional couple.

Holmes had been making short of Irene's corset - no easy task for he had not yet mastered the art of unlacing it with one hand only, but he was bound and determined to get there in the end, lest face the unwelcome alternative of pausing his ministrations with Irene's lips, skin or hair in order to undress her.

The amount of time Holmes actually spent removing Irene's clothes and the amount of time envisaged it took him to remove them were worlds apart. To his mind, it was an area in desperate need of improvement, but Irene never complained; especially not when his lips were wandering with such tantalising fortitude over every inch of her skin he exposed.

"You're getting faster," Irene remarked teasingly into Holmes' hair as the final knot fell away and the sleuth was able to gently roll down the first layer of violet ruffles and expose the tops of her breasts. "I think..." But the rest of her comment never made it from her mouth, so taken aback was she by the sudden application of Holmes' lips to the warmth between her cleavage, and instead of forming into words, her breath expelled itself in a soft gasp of pleasure.

Holmes kissed lower and lower, pushing back the dress as he used his tongue to encircle first one taut nipple and then the second, feeling her tense and tremble beneath him. Each noise he brought forth from her with his touches seemed like an achievement of colossal proportion, and Holmes was eager for more.

"Mmmm..." Irene wrapped her arms around Holmes' neck and her eyes slid shut as she allowed herself to become lost in the sensation of their bodies melding together and the sudden heat of skin-to-skin contact between their two chests.

Holmes raised his head again and looked into her eyes - brown meeting blue above almost identical shared smiles. He ran a hand up into her hair once more and pulled her into another bruising kiss. With hands on her lower back, he slid out from underneath her and turned her gently onto her back, pulling the dress those final crucial inches down over her hips.

She was breathing heavily now and none-too-gently, every so often allowing a soft moan to slip out without realising the effect it was having upon her perpetrator. Holmes drank up every noise and every shiver: in fact he was struggling to suppress his own.

For want of a way to better occupy his lips and thus prevent the total loss of vocal control he feared was fast approaching (because God forbid that Sherlock Holmes lose his composure), Holmes placed his hands upon Irene's hips and began to tease the skin from just below her breasts with slow, teasing kisses, caressing slowly lower and lower until his lips rested parallel with his hands on either side of her waist. Only then did he pause and turn his eyes upwards towards her, waiting. Their continued correspondence had allowed an arrangement of sorts to develop between them before the indulgence of an as intimate as the one they were poised upon the brink of now: Holmes would not speak nor ask her permission to proceed, but paused nonetheless, thus providing Irene with the opportunity to stop him if she felt the need.

But Irene said nothing: if she had been capable of speech, she would have perhaps have articulated _something_, but they would only have been words of encouragement. She lay prone upon the cushions, trembling with anticipation as Holmes slid his arms around the tops of her bare thighs and pulled her closer to him. He lifted her legs up to rest over his shoulders, breathing out slowly through his mouth, for well he knew that the hot air blown between her thighs would have her simply contorted in desperation, and as usual he was proven right - Irene let out a beautiful keening groan and wrapped her hands in his hair, tugging none-too-gently as Holmes pressed his lips against the heat radiating straight from her centre and kissed deeply.

He felt her muscles contract -legs twitching and hands tightening in his curls- and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile. It was moments like this which he had come to appreciate with Irene - when she tugged on his hair whilst he was pleasuring her, refusing to submit to him entirely. It was the reminder he needed that Irene would never be subservient; that she was every inch his equal, and thus he respected her as such.

That said it certainly felt like he was in control of her for now; tongue dabbing teasingly, pressure varying, whilst his hands held her now stuttering hips to the chaise with a firm but apparently effortless touch. He chanced a look upwards and felt as he always did the thrill of seeing Irene entirely under his spell - head thrown backward, neck craned towards the ceiling, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing whilst small, astounded gasps of air escaped from her parched throat. This was how Holmes liked her to be -relaxed and riddled with pleasure- because it was during the throws of her release (or as she was now, just before it) that Holmes believed her to be at her most beautiful. Vulnerability did not suit Irene Adler; he had learned to enjoy it while it lasted.

It was with a flick of his tongue over one of her more sensitive areas that Holmes procured from Irene the first audible noise since he'd begun pleasuring her: a small, wanton groan which seemed to omit from somewhere deep inside her, and Holmes found himself wondering, not for the first time, whether he touched something more than that which was purely physical when they became intimate.

He repeated the same motion again, and then twice more in quick succession until he dragged a flurry of whispered prayers and barely-restrained moans from the poor woman beneath him as her hips began to move rhythmically up to meet his ministrations. She had given up her vow of silence now, it appeared, the steadily-mounting pleasure far outweighing the need to stay silent. And it was certainly a 'need' to stay silent: Holmes and Irene rarely grew tired of their games and this -the contest to see who could be the first to make the other lose control- was merely another variant. When they _did_ lose interest; when one or other expressed the need to 'throw in the towel' as it were, they would make love softly instead with chaste kisses and gentle, arousing strokes of hands over taut skin and muscle.

Paying close attention to the movement and rhythm of her body, Holmes brought his mouth higher and -using an adept finger now as well- gently stroked her finally, mercifully over the precipice of her release. With a final shudder and a deep, almost lyrical moan, Irene let her head fall backwards onto Mrs Hudson's cushions.

Holmes ran his hands up and down her thighs a few times before helping her to lower her legs. She pivoted, kicking her ankles high in a brief pirouette and with a tinkling laugh, lay back down again with her head this time settled in Holmes' lap.

"That was quite a welcome!" Irene felt sated and content as she stared up at Holmes, partnered with the unfamiliar feeling of being totally at ease which seemed to crop up only when she was with him.

"Hmm." Holmes cast a hand over her forehead, sweeping back the strands of chocolate brown which had settled across her forehead, slightly dampened by perspiration.

Irene's grin widened. "Talkative, as always..." She leaned over the edge of the settee and retrieved her half-full wine glass. "Come on then, I want all the news - how is the Doctor?"

"Busy." Holmes answered with far more disdain than he'd necessarily intended, and Irene let out a burst of laughter.

"My God, you're like a kid who had his favourite toy confiscated. It's adorable - you pine more for him than you do for me!"

"That, my dear," Holmes said with feeling, "is both an exaggerated observation and a deplorably inaccurate one." He leaned in suddenly and kissed her, as if this proved his point. "I digress..."

Between the butterfly kisses Holmes was teasingly peppering across her cheeks and forehead, Irene giggled. "Digress further, please."

"With pleasure." Holmes pressed his lips once more to the very end of her nose, before taking the wine bottle from the floor and pouring them both a healthy measure more. "But first, of Rome: I hear the Piazza Navona is beautiful around this time..."

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><p>Watson's final appointment before his lunch had finished a quarter of an hour earlier than he'd expected. Waiting for the extra time to elapse before he could close officially might have allowed him to get stuck into a stack of heavily procrastinated paperwork, but Watson had a more worthy cause to attend to that afternoon, and so he skipped lunch altogether catching a hansom to the offices of Scotland Yard in Whitehall Place.<p>

It would have been unreasonable for Watson to expect a warm welcome from Inspector Gregory Lestrade given his close association with Sherlock Holmes -the man whose expertise it pained Lestrade to admit was indispensible to him. Holmes himself had as scathing an opinion of the Inspector as Lestrade had of him, but for rather different reasons: Holmes had often declined unwilling invitations to Yard dinners _"because the overwhelming stench of stupidity in the room, Watson, would quite put me off my food"_; Lestrade, on the other hand, kept his distance deliberately, because it just wasn't done for a decorated Scotland Yard Inspector to strike a civilian repeatedly over the head with a walking cane.

And so it was with some surprise that, when Watson was shown by a young constable into the office of Inspector Lestrade himself, he found that he was not immediately ejected.

"Doctor John Watson for you, sir," the constable explained, ushering Watson inside in his wake.

"Alright, lad." Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, buried wrist-deep in official-looking papers. He was apparently midway through the process of applying his signature to each - there were two piles, one containing sheets marked at the bottom with a black 'GL', and one containing those without. The signatures had been marked with less and less care as he had progressed through the pile, and Watson guessed he had been at it for some time.

The constable backed out of the room, leaving Watson and Lestrade alone. An uncomfortable silence followed which both men endeavoured to break at the same moment

"Inspector Lestrade..." Watson began, but he was interrupted.

"I know why you're here, Doctor Watson, and the answer is still 'no'."

Watson blinked, slightly taken aback and also rather impressed. If Lestrade had indeed realised the intention of his visit before he'd even had a chance to explain it, then perhaps he wasn't quite as stupid as Holmes gave him credit for.

"I'm sorry?" Watson queried at last.

"You heard me." Lestrade hadn't bothered offering Watson a handshake, and his eyes now turned obstinately back to his papers. "He sent you down here, didn't he - Sherlock bloody Holmes?"

At this point, Watson felt it was pointless to deny it, and so instead he stepped over the question.

"Sir Francis Lowerly has been missing for over two months now - surely you must be buried beneath growing concerns for his safety given the -with all due respect- distinct lack of progress in his repatriation...?"

"We are in the process of sculpting our investigation," Lestrade said snippily. He sniffed. "We can't all be pulling people's bleedin' life stories out of the air - these things take time, you know."

"I do know," Watson said. He had not been offered a seat, but he pulled one out anyway. "And so I also know that time is the one thing you don't have. There are lives on the line, Lestrade - time is not in plentiful supply at present."

"We can handle this case on our own without him and his..." Lestrade seemed to struggle for the words. "...Quirks," he said at last, "making the force look like bloody imbeciles in front of Her Majesty's government."

This, Watson knew, was Lestrade's problem (and the problem of far too many people than the good doctor had the patience to count) with Holmes: they would put up with him as long as he was useful, but as soon as that use expired, they were to crawl back into a hole of denial and convince themselves that they could have managed perfectly well without him after all. Perhaps Lestrade was enjoying the shift in power too much to relent - reducing Sherlock Holmes to inadvertently begging to be allowed on a case, as opposed to the other way around, must have been quite the thrill.

"...Sticking his nose in where it's not wanted, muddying the waters..." Lestrade was the sort of man to continue speaking, regardless of whether or not anybody was listening. "...Too bloody clever for his own good..."

"Correct on all counts, I'm sure." Watson tried his best to remain amiable. "I've said worse things to him myself, believe me..." He lowered his voice. "Alright, if you won't accept Holmes' help for your own benefit, perhaps you would consider it on behalf of his landlady - Mrs Hudson..?"

Lestrade frowned. "What's the matter with her?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Watson, "is the matter with her. When the fountain of employment runs dry, Holmes becomes swiftly parched with thirst and the results are far from pleasing." He entertained a sudden image of marble statues around an empty sun-baked fountain and wondered if he had waxed lyrical. Lestrade, however, was categorically unmoved.

"Isn't there something else he can be meddling with?" he demanded. "Any more speckled adders in the ventilation? Werewolves on the Dartmoor grasslands?"

Watson had a sneaking suspicion that Lestrade had been reading his publications, though clearly he had not been paying a great deal of attention.

"One week," Watson coaxed. "Just one week, Lestrade. That's all it will take him and you know it."

"Why has he sent you here anyway?" Lestrade brandished his pen with such vehemence that small flecks of ink flew from the nib. "If he wants in, why isn't he the one here begging on his knees?"

"Holmes is indisposed at present," Watson said delicately. "Besides, he's never been one for begging."

Lestrade snorted. "You don't say..." He set his pen down and shrugged indifferently. "Look, even if I _did_ need him, there's nothing I can do. Lowerly is a matter of national importance - we can't just bring in a bloody amateur detective!"

Given how Lestrade owed most if not all of his commendations to the work of Sherlock Holmes (and indeed to that of Watson himself), to describe him in terms as demeaning as 'amateur detective' was both highly insulting and highly ironic, but Watson did not say so.

It was clear to him that Lestrade had already made his decision - it would be pointless to irk him further with careless words, no matter how accurate they may have been.

And so Watson rose to his feet, tipped his hat and wished the Inspector a good afternoon before going on his way. He felt the building frustration with every step he took: in light of the failure of his own aim to secure Holmes a position of access to the Lowerly case, and of the consequences of Lestrade's obstinacy - the cabinet minister had a wife and a young son waiting at home: waiting for news, any news, telling of either his discovery or his death, for there was no possible way of knowing which (if any) would come first. What must that feel like? Watson prayed then and there that he would never find out.

As he prepared to reopen his premises for the arrival of the first afternoon patient, Watson considered what the consequences would be when (and it was a case of 'when' rather than 'if') Holmes discovered that he had been to Lestrade on his behalf and beseeched that he be let onto the case, but quickly discovered quickly that it was best not to do so whilst working. After all, mentally listing the countless ways in which Sherlock Holmes was capable of killing him with his bare hands was not exactly conducive to the bedside manner of an esteemed London medic...


	4. Unwelcome Assistance

**Author's Note: Okay so there isn't an excuse good enough, so I won't try. I AM SO SORRY. Now my exams are officially out the way, I've been planning out where this story is going to go from here, working out plot details etc, and it's really taken me this long to get some stuff down on paper (or screen). Nevertheless, we are back on track now with a whole plot sketched out. For those of you wanting more from Irene, she will definitely be back in the next chapter. In the meantime, enjoy chapter 4, and I have to ask (nay, beg) from some understanding - Mycroft Holmes is a fiendishly difficult character to write! Enjoy, guys! **

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><p>The headlines two days later brought news of a second disappearance, and Watson found himself upon Holmes' doorstep once again, armed with a copy of the morning Gazette and Gladstone plodding on the lead at his heels.<p>

Colonel Victor Shrewsbury was a decorated serviceman and highly-regarded member of Her Majesty's National Security Council with more than twenty years experience, military and parliamentary. According to the report (what Watson could gather since it was clear Scotland Yard was being extremely selective with the information they allowed for release), Shrewsbury had been en-route to the gentleman's club two nights previously but had never arrived. Mrs Shrewsbury had notified the authorities the following morning when she awoke to find her husband missing, thus adding a second name to the list of government ministers Scotland Yard was charged with finding and returning - a task they would invariably fail to complete if Lestrade remained so hell-bent upon keeping Sherlock Holmes out of the investigation.

Holmes was usually incapable of remembering to fetch his own paper and usually preferred to catch up on several weeks worth of national news when Watson stopped by with a morning periodical; that said it was a rare occasion when he remained totally in the dark when something monumental was panning out in the press. Holmes had eyes and ears all over the city to the point where even Watson wasn't sure of the true extent of his friend's connections.

So it was no real surprise to the Doctor that the news of Shrewsbury's disappearance seemed to have reached Baker Street before he did, at least if the hansom, horse and footman waiting on the doorstep of 221b was any indication.

Watson had brought his old key along and he slipped it into the lock, feeling the eyes of the footman on him as he did so. It was an unnerving feeling, and Watson was glad to step into the hallway and close the door on the street behind him.

He untied Gladstone's lead and let the little dog scamper away into the drawing room whilst he himself headed towards the stairs. It didn't take skilled observation to surmise that in the two days since Mrs Hudson had departed for the coast, standards of hygiene and general cleanliness at Baker Street had taken off on a distinctly downward trajectory: the smell of burning rubber was the first to assault Watson's nostrils as he began up the steps to the top floor, followed swiftly by those of tobacco and undiluted ethanol. Watson cast a glance downwards at the stair carpet underfoot. Scorch marks, black and angry and each about the size of a tuppence piece, began sporadically halfway up the stairs and became gradually more concentrated as Watson climbed. The top step was a mass of burns and blackened carpet in the delicate floral pattern of Mrs Hudson's coverings, and Watson shut his mind off against the onslaught of imaginings as to just what Holmes had been doing.

The door of Holmes' rooms stood wide open, so Watson didn't bother to knock.

"Holmes, are you aware there's a hansom downstairs and presumably a passenger who came here looking for..." Watson trailed off, having noticed that Holmes wasn't alone.

The detective was seated in his armchair by the window, fingers laced together and his expression laced with manic enthusiasm. The suited man in the seat opposite held a starched bowler hat on his lap and was eyeing his surroundings - the piles of rubbish, unopened letters and unidentifiable trinkets which made up the contents of Holmes' room - with an expression of utter distaste. He stood up as Watson entered, offering a handshake which the Doctor accepted with a bemused nod.

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" The man returned to his seat, casting a disdainful downwards as Gladstone appeared at Watson's heels, barking loudly. Watson saw Holmes stifle the beginnings of an amused smirk at their guest's obvious discomfort, and stepped smartly between the two chairs before the detective could compromise himself.

"And you are..?"

"James Avery," the man introduced himself with a nod, lifting his eyes with difficulty away from the dog. "I've come at the bidding of my employers to bring Sherlock Holmes to them immediately; and you, Doctor, if you will insist on accompanying him..."

"He insists," Holmes said.

"Does he?" Watson dropped the newspaper into Holmes' lap, warding off a sigh as the detective took a fleeting glance at the front page before dumping the entire stack onto the floor by his feet.

"Yes, he does," Holmes said, looking belligerently up at Watson. "Now, what have we discussed about being rude to guests?"

"_Your_ guest, Holmes," Watson pointed out, "not mine. Your house, not mine. Your mess, not mine." He stooped, bringing a dubious-looking sock up between finger and thumb for closer inspection. "Yes, Holmes - let's talk about manners, shall we?"

"Whether you come or not makes little difference," Avery interrupted before Holmes could argue back. He fixed Watson with a thin smile. "I'm sure you understand the necessity that this matter remains as discrete as possible, Doctor, even if your friend..." He glanced unpleasantly in Holmes' direction. "...does not. My employers advised diplomacy when attempting to separate him from you - I understand he is somewhat attached..."

Watson was liking Avery less and less with every word the man spoke: a protégée who had gained an important task and a self-important attitude all in one go. Gladstone apparently thought so too - the little dog hadn't stopped barking since Watson had brought him in, and Avery was visibly flinching with every snap of his teeth.

"Since I've arrived a little late, why don't you fill me in?" Watson gritted his teeth, drawing a stool and taking his seat halfway between the two armchairs. He felt like he was mediating an intermittently violent tennis match - Holmes wore a particularly dangerous expression which long experience had taught Watson to recognise as a sure sign of trouble ahead, usually with entertaining results.

Avery indicated the crumpled morning Gazette on the floor by Holmes' feet. "You've read the headlines, Doctor - I'm sure they were telling enough."

"Shrewsbury," Watson agreed.

"It appears a second minister gone missing was a little too much for my brother to place with Scotland Yard alone," Holmes said, stretching his legs out before him with a sly glance at Watson. "Even with the capable hands of Inspector Lestrade guiding the helm."

"Your brother?" Watson asked. He shifted his foot to allow room for Gladstone who had settled himself comfortably enough between the Doctor's two legs. "Mycroft..."

"...Is responsible for this, yes." Holmes looked up at Avery as he spoke, and seemed invigorated by the expression of shock passing fleetingly over the aide's countenance. "Though I feel I may have stolen from the splendour of the moment of which our guest was hoping to unveil our destination and the people who sent him here. His finest hour, don't you agree, Watson? And I took it from him."

"Awful of you," Watson said, nodding earnestly as he could manage. "Truly awful. In fact, I think you should apologise."

"I probably should."

"Enough," Avery barked. He had gone very red in the face; clearly not having been warned in greater detail about Holmes and Watson -the destructive duo - at their most antagonistic was taking its toll.

"My apologies," Watson said with cordial tact. "Perhaps if you told us more..."

"My instructions were to bring you to Whitehall and nothing more," Avery said stubbornly, and Watson noted with a concealed smile that only now did he consider it necessary to provide additional information.

"Ceremonial without due cause," Watson noted, tilting his head to one side. "Are you sure he's not with the Yard, Holmes?"

"As much as Lestrade would enjoy pulling the strings on this puppetry of pomp and circumstance..." Holmes looked Avery up and down in a way reminiscent of a tiger selecting the finest gazelle for the slaughter. "...I think not. Mycroft is the guilty party here, Watson. Surely a medical mind as shrewd as your own could not have failed to notice the accumulation of extra weight around the thighs and buttocks of our guest, though you were not present for my initial clue - a distinct lack of breath after climbing the stairs to the rooms in which we now sit: the telltale signs of a man who spends long periods of his life inert."

Holmes turned his piercing gaze downwards to Avery's shoes.

"Soot and scorch marks," said he, "clearly visible. Brown leather is rather telling of hours spent sitting too close to the fire." It was clear by now that Holmes was having fun, even if the opposite was true for the unfortunate Avery.

"You might also observe, Watson, the behaviour of our guest when confronting our canine companion." Holmes had produced a pipe from somewhere inside his waistcoat, and he waved it somewhat menacingly in Gladstone's direction. "We both were privy to his discomfort when the dog began barking. Perhaps he is no friend to the animals; but then you, my dear doctor, would not have seen Mr Avery pause to pet a stray mongrel which wandered into his path as he exited the hansom outside. Conclusion - it is the barking he objects to rather than the creature who emitted it." Holmes leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and closed his eyes. "What indeed is more disturbing than abrupt and continuous noise to a man who is at his most comfortable in a state of absolute silence..?" He opened one eye and looked to Watson. "Do tell us, Watson - in which establishment frequented by my brother would we find a group of gentlemen sitting perfectly still with their feet in the hearth, basking languidly in the blessed silence of seclusion..?"

"The Diogenes Club," Watson finished.

"Correct." Holmes let the eye fall closed again.

"Of course..." Watson craned his neck, looking down at the hansom and then back at Holmes. "And I'm sure the fact you failed to mention the coat of arms representing Her Majesty's government sewn into the flat-cap of the footman downstairs was just a simple lapse of memory..?"

Holmes barely twitched.

"Of course not," he said with a touch of indignation. "I paid due consideration to _all _variables; however to state the obvious is to make a mockery of higher thought."

"Oh that's your excuse, is it?" Watson scoffed. "That's the reason you missed the most fundamental clue available, rather than because you were too busy showing off..?"

"All the world's a stage," said Holmes, "and all the men and women merely players; though some more gifted than most."

Watson bit back a cutting retort when he remembered Avery: Mycroft's aide (who had of course come straight from the Diogenes where the meeting with his employer had taken place that morning) had lost the worst of his violent scarlet flush, instead resigning himself to Holmes' dissection with a faintly sickened expression - the picture of a man genuinely violated with little or no intention of speaking up. He got slowly to his feet, flinching at another rowdy bark from Gladstone, and placed the bowler hat firmly on top of his head, irrespective of the presence of company and the fact they were still inside. It was clear Avery had decided to adopt a similar attitude to etiquette as his host.

"Shall we, gentlemen? The carriage has been waiting some time as it is, and I'm sure you're aware your brother operates an exceedingly tight schedule, Mr Holmes - particularly in uncertain times such as these."

"Oh?" Holmes queried, standing and brushing himself down. "A shame - I was beginning to enjoy myself; but we will go where you bid."

Avery had either decided both Holmes and Watson were potentially dangerously unstable and was therefore bound to humour them, or else the detective's spot-on analysis had provided a sharp poke to his ego and allowed him to realise just what he was up against, at which point common sense had intervened and told him it would be best to back off before he came off worse a second time. Watson would have put his final shilling on the former possibility: as the three men boarded the hansom that would whisk them away to Mycroft's daytime office, the doctor could feel Avery's gaze on him, and it was definitely one of apprehension rather than humility. Holmes, as was his way and well accustomed to people's expressions of mingled fear and respect, didn't seem to notice. In any case, Avery's attitude did not affront him: it had taken Sherlock Holmes a lifetime of practiced egotism to reach this high on his pedestal, and it would take a sight more than an inflated government aide to bring him down again.

Watson passed frequently through Whitehall on his way to visit patients, though usually on-foot and usually without Holmes, who was whistling fervently as the carriage wheels clicked in time with the hooves of the grey mare pulling it.

Despite the company, however, Watson was content just to sit back and enjoy the ride. Even the verses of 'I Bow to Thee My Country' whistled somewhat tunelessly through the teeth of the detective beside him couldn't penetrate the small sense of moral victory he felt at getting Holmes out of the house and ankle-deep into a new case. It was merely unfortunate, as Watson's medical and military compassion whispered to him, that another man should have to go missing before the authorities could swallow their pride and invite their rightful Admiral (and of course the ship's Doctor) onboard.

As the hansom approached the cast-iron gates of 'Warwickshire Court' -their eventual destination- they swung back to admit the visitors, and Watson swallowed hard on the realisation that they were sure to be watched closely from now on. He'd never been inside a British government building on official business before, and couldn't help but wonder what to expect.

The footman tugged on the reins, bringing the horse and carriage to a stop before the entrance where two guards in olive green britches were waiting to greet them. Avery stepped down from the carriage without a word, leaving the door ajar with a silent glance over his shoulder that Watson and Holmes should follow him close-at-heel.

Behind the mahogany doors of Warwickshire Court lay nestled a twisting maze of almost identical corridors, distinguishable (to Watson's untrained eyes at least) only by the different faces staring down from oil impressions of dour but otherwise nameless politicians which lined the panelled walls inside. Every so often they would come up against a guard or suited official passing towards their own business behind one or other of the anonymous doors; what was amusing was that not one of them gave Avery a second glance, and Watson could almost see the self-importance deflate from the shoulder pads of the man's pressed suit-jacket. Throwing a cursory glance in Holmes' direction after a large man with a gold chain around his neck almost walked straight through their pompous guide, Watson could have sworn he saw the detective smirk.

It occurred to Watson that for a man of Avery's (admittedly half imaginary) status to be brushed aside so completely by his fellows, it must be powerful men indeed who held office here. Watson knew enough of Mycroft Holmes to have some vague idea of the circles he ran in - it was said he had a finger in the pie of every major government department, and that was more pies than Watson cared to count, every one sporting a gilded crust and suspiciously dangerous filling. Wherever they were going and whoever they were going to see, Watson couldn't shake the impression that it was going to be impressive (and perilous) indeed.

So it was of some surprise and a touch of disappointment to Watson when they crossed the threshold into the 'Victoria Room' -their eventual destination- to find that the waiting audience was actually a decidedly unglamorous one: Mycroft Holmes was there, of course -rotund and haughty as Watson remembered him, and flanked as he always was by the poe-faced lackey Caruthers who stood motionless at his side. To the left of Caruthers stood Inspector Lestrade, arms filled with papers and an ugly scowl darkening his already sullen countenance. The final member of their group was a man Watson's didn't recognise - he might have been thirty years old, with watery grey eyes and a moustache which twitched like a nervous ferret when his eyes fell upon Avery and the men he was leading.

"About time too, Sherly - I was beginning to think you weren't coming." This was clearly Mycroft's office - who else would have forsaken hardwood guest chairs in favour of the sprawling armchair in which he sat? The elder Holmes heaved himself out of the cushioned depths, approaching his brother with hands tucked neatly behind his back. He threw a glance in Watson's direction, eyebrows creeping slowly upwards as he appraised the taller man. "A new mattress may be in order, I feel, Doctor - with three children so young, a back injury would be most inconvenient. That will be all, Avery." The shamefaced aide slunk out of the room with a nod of compliance, and Mycroft turned back to his brother.

"Since proceedings have rather ground to a halt over the Lowerly case, I feel, as do my superiors, that it is high time your skills were put to their best use in finding him, Sherly."

"Finding him only," Lestrade interjected, and the contempt was clear in his voice. "You find out what happened to the missing men and nothing more - none of your usual funny business, d'you hear?"

"I believe Inspector Lestrade intends for you to be responsible for locating our missing friends, at which point Scotland Yard will deal with the perpetrators," Mycroft said diplomatically. "This is a delicate matter, Sherly, and justice must be served; there can be no doubt whatsoever over the legitimacy of the arrests." Watson for one was beginning to gain some idea of how much of Mycroft's considerable influence had been pumped into Lestrade's agreeing to allow Holmes on the case in the first place.

Holmes had remained silent the entire time, hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back. Too thoughtfully, Watson thought; the detective might have been thinking of something else altogether. His eyes had fallen upon the unknown man at Mycroft's side, and Mycroft cut through the contemplative silence to intervene.

"This spruce and spry young dandy is my chief of staff. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson - Charles Wetherspoon." Mycroft sniffed. "I'm giving him over into your sticky fingers for the duration of the case - pray he returns to me unsullied."

Wetherspoon turned a somewhat sickened smile in Holmes and Watson's direction. He appeared pleasant enough at first glance; maybe even a touch embarrassed by Mycroft's deferential introduction. The man seemed nervous, Watson noted, for he fiddled constantly with the gold wedding band on his ring finger, twisting it around and around the digit as if to conceal a tremble, twitch or impulse that would reveal his discomfort. His eyes flickered between doctor and detective with mingled respect and fear, and Watson wondered whether this was the effect Holmes had on people when they were well aware of his abilities.

"I already have ample assistance at my disposal." Holmes spoke for the first time, looking to Watson as he did so.

"We need someone on the inside," Lestrade interjected before Mycroft had a chance to respond. "Someone who's going to make sure you stay on the task at hand without any tangents, and who's going to report back to me..." Lestrade jabbed a finger into his own chest. "...about all your goings on."

Holmes, who would have appeared coolly unconcerned to those who did not know him well enough to recognise the expression of simmering outrage buried just below the surface, turned his gaze upon Wetherspoon, apparently contented himself with the fact that it would do no good to shoot the messenger, and then looked straight back to Lestrade.

"How lucky for you, Inspector, to have such a means with which to keep pace with my investigation as to have it handed to you on a silver platter by our young comrade-in-arms..."

"It would have been a member of the Yard if not for my negotiations," Mycroft said swiftly. "I would advise you not to argue: Mr Wetherspoon's presence was one of the good Inspector's conditions of your involvement in the case."

"I assure you, Mr Holmes, you will barely notice my presence." Wetherspoon himself stepped forwards a little hesitantly, offering a hand which Holmes accepted. "I need not be privy to every aspect of the investigation; merely kept 'in the loop', as it were."

Watson, who was the next to shake Wetherspoon by the hand and surely by default the next to notice the light sheen of sweat on the younger man's palms, kept his eyes upon Holmes, awaiting his reaction with a certain amount of glee. He'd heard it from the horse's mouth, of course, that Lestrade was unwilling to allow Holmes onto the case, and whilst it wasn't rare for the Inspector to question Holmes' methods, this instance marked the first time he had actively challenged them.

Watson chose the silence as an opportunity to voice a query that had entered his mind not seconds after Mycroft had last spoken. "What were the Inspector's _other_ conditions for allowing Holmes onto the case?"

"How fortunate of you to ask, my dear Doctor." Mycroft stepped back to indicate the stack of files and photographs which sat on the edge of his desk. The pile was double the size of the one held by Inspector Lestrade. "Dossiers, witness statements and accounts of both Lowerly and Shrewsbury's movements up to and not exceeding three hours before their respective disappearances." The elder Holmes regarded his brother with a twisted half-smile. "Though I'm sure you won't read half before the entire stack finds its way into the hearth at 221b Baker Street; indeed I wouldn't think less of you if they did." Mycroft strolled to the window, looking out onto Whitehall with a superior expression. "All this paperwork seems a frankly pitiable alternative to the merits of swift calculation in conducting the sort of concise investigation you specialise in, brother. Nevertheless, it is Inspector Lestrade's wish that you study the material thoroughly alongside your own work, and indeed who am I to contest him?"

Holmes seemed to be suppressing a smirk. He eyed the papers Lestrade was offering up with a sardonic expression, scooping up one of the top-most folders and flicking briefly through the pages.

"What thorough preparation." Holmes' voice and the contempt it held was lost on no-one but Lestrade. "Really, Inspector, if you could assemble the manpower for such meticulous research every time a case comes your way, you would have me out of a job before Christmas..."

Watson took up the folder Holmes had abandoned, curious to read for himself the material Lestrade had selected as relevant for the detective's investigation; the irony of course being that little or no selection of material had taken place whatsoever. The dossier (this one concerning the first missing man, Sir Francis Lowerly) contained maybe forty pages with handwritten text on both sides, interspersed with newspaper clippings and official-looking documents of such depth and detail that Watson's head had begun to ache before he was at the bottom of the first page. A cursory glance over the other files presented similar results: page after page of material recounting Lowerly's early life and career, his marriage, acquaintances and political connections, together with what appeared to be the records of the politician's movements leading to his disappearance. Watson already anticipated there would be an almost identical set of papers for Colonel Shrewsbury, and he certainly wasn't looking forward to reading them. It would be Watson, after all, who would read the papers - someone had to, and somehow the Doctor doubted Holmes would be doing so any time soon.

"I'll have Caruthers arrange a courier to bring the papers to Baker Street for you this morning, Sherly," Mycroft said in languid tones, as if the continued mention of the Inspector's demands -perhaps even of the case itself - was boring him listless. "I would bid you good day, gentlemen, unless there are any further questions..?"

"No, thank you." Watson spoke quickly before Holmes could take the chance; in all likelihood it was better for all involved that he had. Nonetheless, Watson too was displeased, and he hoped his own contempt would shine through loud and clear enough for even the oblivious Lestrade to hear it. "Thank you, Inspector - for the opportunity and the assistance. I'm sure it will be of some great use."

"Great, if yet unknown," Holmes murmured.

Watson ignored Holmes, accepting a parting handshake from Wetherspoon.

"Until we meet again, Doctor." Mycroft's chief of staff took back his hand and returned immediately to twisting the wedding band around his finger. "Mr Holmes..." He looked to the detective who had been making his way towards the door without a word of farewell to either his brother or Inspector Lestrade. Holmes paused in the doorway but did not look back, and Wetherspoon, apparently quite taken aback, accepted Watson's wordless prompt that he should speak anyway. "I hope I can be of some use to you in the scheme of things, Sir."

Though he could not see the detective's face, Watson could imagine the expression.

"We'll see," said Holmes.

* * *

><p>"Why does it always fall to me to be the adult?" It took Watson some smart steps on a knee that still gave him some measurable trouble before he managed to catch up with Holmes, and lucky indeed that he had, for Holmes was certainly the only one of the two who could remember the correct way back through the corridors to the outside. It appeared that James Avery was not going to be assisting them on their way home.<p>

"In a room full of infants, somebody has to," Holmes answered. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, and Watson found it impossible to tell whether the detective was lost in thought concerning the case or simply too angry with Lestrade's intrusion to behave otherwise. "Myself, I prefer to give as good as I get..."

"So what's the first step?" Watson asked, unable to dispute the detective's 'logic'. "I trust you plan on having both ministers returned safely and the verdict delivered before it even becomes necessary to discuss the details with Wetherspoon..?"

"Wetherspoon," Holmes said, "knows more than he would care to reveal. In time I hope we will discover just how much." Holmes clapped his hands together in front of his face, his tone suddenly businesslike. "So, to the case..." There was a spring in his step, and Watson smiled to see it. "_I_ am returning to Baker Street forthwith - I have an engagement." The detective glanced over his shoulder without breaking his stride. "_You_ are returning to Mycroft's office to inform him that the courier should bring the papers to Cavendish Place rather than 221b, because there will be little use for them there."

"Of course..." Watson nodded resignedly. He called after Holmes as the detective threw open the door to the outside courtyard. "Give Miss Adler my best regards, won't you..?"

He could no longer see Holmes, but the detective's voice carried all the same.

"A sentiment I am sure she'll return..."


End file.
